


The Adventure Of The Priory School (1901)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [191]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Attempted Murder, Boarding School, Chocolate, Demon Summoning, Destiel - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Murder, Poisoning, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 14:58:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11694078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Murderers come in all shapes and sizes – and in a case which starts with an unnerving experience for Watson, who would have reason to kill two English schoolboys?





	The Adventure Of The Priory School (1901)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MelodyofWings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelodyofWings/gifts).



> Belvoir is pronounced locally as 'Beaver'.

Looking back, I find that if I include the undocumented cases (of which there were well over a thousand) Sherlock and I undertook cases in each of England's historic counties at one time or another, even accounting for the 'tidying up' of the boundaries in 1888. However, some of them we visited but once, and this was the only case that we ever undertook in England's smallest county (147 square miles), Rutlandshire. As with several others, it began with suspicions of a preternatural element, but it ended..... well, read on.

+~+~+

It was January, nineteen hundred and one, three months after the Baron Dowson case that had taken us to Gretna Green (and me to Heaven!). The news was gloomy; our dear Queen had as usual spent Christmas on the Isle of Wight at her beloved Osborne House, but had been taken ill and had not returned to London as yet. A cold bitter chill hung over the land, and I wished heartily that the skies would snow and get it over with. Instead the clouds hung leaden and heavy over the land, draining the colours from the landscape beneath them. 

A case had taken us to rural Leicestershire, and I was not pleased when the summons to our next case caught up with us in the rural retreat of Melton Mowbray, in which we had stayed on for a few days. Unfortunately the telegram asking for our help came from the same religious order who had taught Sherlock in London, and even though he had not enjoyed his school days, he still felt obliged to go. I did insist however on our not starting out until the following day, especially as the summons had reached us after eight in the evening. Although there may have been a train across the border, justice could wait for twelve more hours. Sherlock needed his sleep.

We had dined at the house of an acquaintance that evening, from which we had just returned, although 'dined' was perhaps an exaggeration. The current vogue for infinitesimally tiny portions seemed a convenient excuse for not providing enough food, as far as I was concerned. My stomach voiced its agreement with that sentiment as we re-entered our hotel room, much to Sherlock's amusement.

“I had a feeling that you might not be too impressed with tonight's menu”, he said, “so I ordered some food in from the hotel restaurant. It should be heated up and here in a few minutes.”

“Good!” I said fervently. “I need it.”

We both undressed, and soon there was a knock at the door. Sherlock donned his dressing-gown – he had absent-mindedly opened the door to one of the maids dressed only in his underpants the previous morning, and the girl had run screaming down the corridor, lucky thing! - and went to get the food. I perked up at once at the familiar smell.

“Apple pie!” I beamed, bouncing across the room like an over-eager puppy. He chuckled at me,

“I thought that you would approve of my choice”, he said with a smile. “Tell me, John; if it ever came to a choice between pie and sex, which one would you choose?”

My face must have resembled a train crash, as I stared at him in abject horror. His face fell, and he sighed unhappily.

“I see”, he said morosely. “Then I had better leave you two together....mmph!”

I stopped his words by the simple expedient of sealing my lips to his, and holding him as close as I could. He tensed briefly before melting into me.

“You can send that back to the kitchens right now”, I said firmly, even though a part of me winced at the idea. “You always come first, Sherlock.”

He smiled, and walked across to the bell. For one horrible moment I thought he was going to do just as I had said, but then he smiled at me again.

“Just testing”, he said. “I would never deny the man I love, the food he loves. Even if that food is a close second to me.”

“My Sherlock”, I said, walking over and plastering my body all over him. “Share my pie, please?”

He beamed at me. And even better, he let me have most of the pie!

+~+~+

Hitherto, I had always thought of the English village as something permanent. The cluster of little cottages unaffected even if there was a railway line passing nearby, the small, quiet churchyard, the tavern, the shops, the families who had lived there for generations, the squire's house...... it seemed as if it had been that way for centuries, and always would be. Which may have been why the scene before me came as such a shock when I realized what it was.

We had been summonsed to the famous Priory School not far from the town of Uppingham in Rutlandshire, an institution which, despite its remoteness, rivalled places like Eton and Harrow in its fame and accomplishments. Unfortunately it now surpassed those institutions in a rather more unwelcome accomplishment – the sudden deaths of two of its pupils. I did not immediately see the connection between that and a field with strange markings, but Brother Lionel, who had come to meet us off the train, explained matters.

“You are probably going to be told about our famous Curse at some time or other”, he said, “so I thought that I would fill you in with the facts. This, gentlemen, is all that remains of Martinsthorpe village.”

I remembered that the station we had recently alighted from had been Martinsthorpe Halt (for The Priory School), but I had assumed that the village in question was a normal one. Apparently not.

“Sheep?” Sherlock said, as if everything was patently clear to him (it probably was, and I wanted to swat him for it). Our host nodded.

“Back in 1533, Prior Robert decided that wool was the future, and threw all the villagers out of their homes”, he explained. “The village was razed to the ground, and replaced with a single sheep-farm; you can see the modern farm buildings in the distance. Legend has it that the villagers cursed the prior and said that he would go to the devil, but he just laughed at them. Yet just six years later, Henry the Eighth dissolved the place and gave it to one of his followers. It passed through various owners until our order acquired it as a school twenty years ago. That was the same year the railway opened, and we have prospered ever since. Until now.”

I looked out at the marked field, and shuddered. Getting on for four centuries since that terrible day, yet there were still signs of the lives and loves that had been so brutally interrupted here. What, in this world, was truly permanent?

“What happened to the prior?” I asked.

“Retired on a fat pension from the king and lived for at least thirty very well-fed years!” Brother Lionel laughed. “So you see why I am a bit chary about that part of the Curse. But with the deaths of young Smith and Warwick, well, people are talking. I just thought that you should be prepared.”

“All facts have the potential to be important”, Sherlock said, rather sententiously I thought. 

The brother nodded, and we got back into our carriage, leaving the abandoned village behind us. I was not sorry to see the back of it.

+~+~+

The head of the school was Father Adam, a balding monk in his late fifties. He greeted us warmly.

“It was fortunate that your telegram caught us in the area”, Sherlock said. “Brother Lionel explained what has happened, but I would like to run through things with your good self, to make sure that I have all the facts.”

“Of course”, our host said. He sat back and folded his arms over his ample figure (I tried not to think 'Friar Tuck' but failed dismally, and of course earnt myself a warning look from a certain nearby mind-reader). “Naturally most of the boys returned to their families for the Christmas break, but by last week they were all back with us. Before the end of our last school year, the Governors who run the school had decided that we should take on three lay teachers for the expansion. The Order operates the school, but half of the Governors are lay people, and we felt obliged to respect their wishes, especially as some of them have their sons here. And we had just had to fight off a frankly bizarre suggestion from one of them that we should actually start having _girls_ here!”

He made it sound like they had narrowly avoided a fate worse than death. I suppressed a smile.

“The three new teachers were Mr. Ludwig, for German, Mr. Harrow for art and Mr. Barnstone for Divinity and Scripture”, he went on. “With the first two, I was quite satisfied, more than in Mr. Ludwig's case, but Mr. Barnstone seemed far too relaxed for our institution. He even insisted on the boys addressing him by his first name of Edward.”

“I suppose that every teacher has their own approach”, Sherlock said dryly. “I take it that there were no complaints from the boys?”

“No”, our host admitted, sounding almost reluctant. “And I sampled some of his work throughout last term, as a matter of course, and it seemed fairly satisfactory.”

“Only fairly?” Sherlock asked, quirking an eyebrow. I too was surprised, and wondered a little acidly if the headmaster had been rather disappointed that such a modern approach had not yielded poorer results. 

“One cannot make sound judgements based on a few months”, Father Adam said loftily. “And with what has happened since, I feel that I was quite right to be concerned. Two of his boys were found dead yesterday morning. I of course called the police, but I dispatched a telegram to your Baker Street home at once.”

There were times when I silently cursed the modern world and the almost instant messaging available to people nowadays. This was one of them.

“Please tell us exactly what happened”, Sherlock said.

“I should explain that we are not, strictly speaking, a conventional school”, our host said. “It is our practice that whilst the boys spend about half their time in the classroom as one might expect, they are also set a number of assignments and allowed to finish – or not, as the case may be – in their own time. These all count towards their final mark, and are aimed at encouraging a degree of self-motivation.”

“It all sounds quite sensible”, Sherlock agreed.

“For Divinity & Scripture, the boys have a choice once they reach fourteen”, our host explained. “They all have to take the basic course – we are a Christian country, after all – but they may also take an advanced course as one of their optional subjects. This is why Mr. Barnstone only had four students in his class on the day before the deaths, all sixteen- or seventeen-year-olds. James Smith, Æthelred Langar, Paul Warwick and Mark Barrington-Brooks. The subject of discussion was the power of superstition, and one of the boys – no-one is quite sure as to whom – suggested that they try summoning a demon. Quite stupid, and Mr. Barnstone was foolish to go along with it, but he said that he had a book on the subject, so why not? After dark that evening, they all went to an area behind the stables and painted some symbols on the ground. Naturally nothing happened – but the following morning, both Smith and Warwick were found dead in their beds! Of course, someone talked.”

“You called a doctor?” Sherlock asked. Father Adam nodded.

“We have one on site, Doctor Gipping, and the police brought their own fellow in from Uppingham”, he said. “Both were of the opinion that the cause of death in both cases was poisoning.”

“What sort of poison?” I asked.

“That they would not say”, our host said, “though the police doctor suspects cyanide. He cannot be certain until further tests are carried out, and he has to send to London for those. But it cannot be anything that the boys ate. Their diets are strictly monitored, and dinner is served from communal bowls. They cannot have been poisoned, yet they apparently were.”

“Teenage boys will often find ways to eat things that adults around them know not”, Sherlock said sagely. “I would like to interview the two surviving boys, and Mr. Barnstone, if that is acceptable.”

“Of course”, Father Adam said. “I have already ordered a room to be set aside for you. I will take you there.”

+~+~+

Our first interviewee was Master Æthelred Langar. He was tall for his age, but gangly in the way that teenage boys often are, yet to fully grow into his limbs. His blond hair looked in urgent need of a trim, reminding me of Sammy's son Henry, who had inherited his father's flowing locks. My brother called it 'leonine', but to me it looked just plain untidy. Sherlock's unruly mess of a thatch (especially if I was a contributor to that mess) was infinitely better.

“ _You're_ Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” the boy said disbelievingly, looking at my friend.

I scowled, but I could see his point. Even with all the fame that was now rightfully his, I still got some pitying looks from people who thought I was being overly charitable in taking a passing tramp along with me. We had almost been ejected from our first-class carriage by an overzealous railway official the other day, although it had been worth it for the poor fellow's obvious horror when he had realized who we were.

“I am”, Sherlock smiled. “I am here to investigate the deaths of your two young friends.”

“Paul was my friend”, the boy corrected stiffly. “Jamie was just a bully, always thinking that he was better than everyone else.”

So much for not speaking ill of the dead, I thought wryly. Welcome to the twentieth century!

“The doctors think that both boys were poisoned”, Sherlock said carefully. “That would mean, obviously, that they ate something during the day which you did not. Have you any idea what that might have been?”

There was a short but definite pause before he shook his head.

“Master Langar”, Sherlock said warningly, “I would remind you that the willful withholding of information pertinent to any crime is itself an offence; indeed, the courts consider it to be a most serious one. And this may be murder, so the police would not look kindly on you if you happen to 'remember' something later on in the investigation. What do you know?”

The boy reddened, and gulped.

“Barrington-Brooks came up to us before Barney - Mr. Barnstone - arrived, and showed us a stash of chocolate bars he claimed to have found”, he said. “I asked him why he hadn't eaten any, but he said he was allergic or some such rot.”

“You think that he was lying?” Sherlock asked.

“He's one of those who will do anything to fit in”, the boy said scornfully. “He gave us each two, but Barney came out just after, so we hid them. I suppose they ate theirs later.”

“You did not?” I asked. The boy blushed.

“It was Spotted Dick for pudding that night”, he said. “It's my favourite, and I had rather a lot; the cook thinks I'm underfed, so she gave me extra.”

"I thought Father Adam said you all ate from communal bowls?" I asked.

"Our main courses are", the boy explained, "but the desserts are plated up separately. I went up from our table and got a tray with six plates on it; I had the largest one. You do not think...."

“What did you do with your chocolate bars?” Sherlock interrupted. 

“Hid them underneath my clothes in my room”, the boy said. Then he went pale. “Oh. You think.... _they_ were the poison?”

“I think that we will accompany you to your room now, and forward them to the police for analysis”, Sherlock said firmly. “Let us go!”

He opened the door, and the boy led us through a maze of corridors before finally stopping at a thick wooden door. He opened it and entered a large dormitory room, with two study desks at each end and four beds in between. A brown-haired young boy was reading at one of them, but our guide ignored him and went over to open the small cupboard by his bed. He searched around in it, then looked helplessly at us, before looking in the other draws.”

“Gone?” Sherlock said.

“Gone!” the boy said flatly. “But at least I saved you some time. This is Barrington-Brooks.”

+~+~+

The brown-haired boy accompanied us back to the interview room, looking decidedly nervous. Whereas our first boy had been tall and gangly, this one was short and compact, constantly pushing his glasses back up his nose. His clothes were much more ill-fitting that his predecessor, and I guessed that his family were not so well off. Sherlock seated him opposite us both, and himself sat down.

“You are aware that we are investigating the deaths of two of your fellow pupils”, he said gently.

The boy nodded, looking as if one sharp word would cause him to bolt.

“It is important that we know as much as possible about the victims”, Sherlock said. “I would value your opinions, Master Barrington-Brooks.”

“James had a name for being a bully”, he said quietly, “but he had to be. He had two younger brothers in the school; John, who's thirteen, and Joe, who's nine. They're both small for their age, like me; they got picked on when they started, and he came down on the people doing it, hard. Paul was a bit of a joker. I thought he was the one behind the chocolate, but he denied it.”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock asked. 

“I found six bars of chocolate in my clothes drawers when I went to get my kit for cross-country”, he said. “Paul was one of the few who knew that I was allergic – we both come from Coventry - so I just thought that it was his way of teasing me. I love the stuff but I can't eat it; I come out in a rash all over.”

“So you handed the chocolate to your fellow Divinity & Scripture students”, Sherlock said. The boy nodded, then his eyes widened as he got it.

“No!” he yelped.

“As you have correctly surmised, there is every likelihood that that chocolate was the medium of poison”, Sherlock said gently. “Tell me, apart from Master Langar, were either of the other boys in your dormitory?”

The boy shook his head. 

“No, I only shared with one other boy – Tom Wilson – before Red arrived. Tom was summonsed home last Friday for some family thing or other, a funeral perhaps. Red started this term, transferred in from a school in Nottinghamshire that closed. He did well to get in.”

“Is your room locked when no-one is there?” Sherlock asked.

The boy shook his head. My friend sat back and put his hands behind his head, surveying him curiously.

“It is not just the chocolate, is it?” Sherlock said eventually. “There is something else in this case that you have not yet told us.”

The boy blushed.

“I can't say”, he muttered.

“You can”, Sherlock said. “Two of the four boys at that ritual have died. We would not want you to be the third.”

The boy looked up fearfully.

“You think _I'm_ in danger?” he asked, clearly aghast.

“If the killer knows, or even thinks that you know something, they will surely strike again”, Sherlock said firmly. “I am sure that you have studied Shakespeare's tragedy _“Macbeth”_. You will know that once someone has killed, it becomes ever easier to remove people who look as if they might be 'in the way', no matter how small the real danger.”

The boy gulped.

“I wasn't supposed to be there”, he said, wide-eyed with fear. “I... decided to go to Father Adam about the chocolate this morning, thinking it might be important in some way – the school secretary was gossiping to someone that poison was involved - but he wasn't in his office. On my way back, I heard someone talking in a side-room. I shouldn't have listened, but I recognized the voice.”

“Who was it?” Sherlock asked.

“Red”, the boy said. “And he can only have been talking to one person. I only heard one sentence before I ran, but he definitely said, 'Father, I know what you did'!”

+~+~+

I do not believe it!” I said stoutly. “Father Adam, in his own school? If anyone has a motive not to have two murders here, it is him!”

Sherlock was saved from a reply by the arrival of Mr. Edward Barnstone. The Divinity & Scripture professor sat opposite us, looking nervous. He was a wispy blond fellow of around forty years of age, looking totally bemused at the demise of his pupils.

“First”, Sherlock said, “I would like your opinion of the characters of the four boys at the ritual. Please be frank.”

“Smith was all right; a lot of swagger to him but no real harm”, the man said. “Langar was the one who brought up the idea of the summoning, which is typical of the lad; he always was a troublemaker. Warwick was a joker, and a real fusspot over insignificant matters; I doubt he would ever be able to get a grip on life in general. And Barrington-Brooks should not be left in charge of anything more complex than a lead pencil!”

Sherlock looked at him curiously for a while.

“I see”, he said slowly. “I understand that you moved here at the start of the term, sir. From where, may I ask?”

“Harby, over the border in Leicestershire”, he said with an smile. 

“That is in the Vale of Belvoir, is it not?” Sherlock asked. The smile faded.

“Yes”, the man said, clearly wondering where Sherlock was going with this line of questioning. As was I, for that matter.

“I am going to ask a question which you may find impertinent”, Sherlock said, “but it is highly relevant to my investigation. You are related to the Dukes of Rutland?”

The man's mouth promptly fell open. I knew that feeling.

“How did you know?” he muttered. 

“What is your real name?” Sherlock countered. The man sighed. 

“Edward Manners”, he admitted. “I am a distant cousin to the current duke, and with the death of my father last year I became independently wealthy. Duke John is godfather to my daughter, Elizabeth, and I visit him at the castle from time to time.”

“Then why teach?” I asked, bewildered. If I had money, I would have avoided this profession like the plague!

“It was all I ever wanted to do”, he admitted. “My father hated it, and did everything he could short of disinheriting me to stop me - he would have done that too, but my mother would surely have killed him! - but I persisted. I worked at a local school until last year, and I was certain he used his influence to force it to close down. I managed to get a year at Stowe to cover a teacher who went to the United States, and when he came back, I applied here.”

Sherlock nodded.

“I have one more question”, he said. “Do any of the boys visit you in your private rooms?”

“No, sir!” he said, looking shocked. “That would be highly improper. Tutoring sessions take place only in designated rooms.”

Sherlock leant forward. 

“I have an idea about how we might solve this case”, he said. “But I am going to need some help....”

+~+~+

“Is this really necessary?” Father Adam asked, looking vexed. “I have already had to talk three fathers out of withdrawing their sons from the school.”

“I would not ask unless it was”, Sherlock said firmly. “I only need to borrow Mr. Barnstone for a few days, a week at most.”

“What if the killer strikes whilst you are gone?” the headmaster demanded.

“It is my belief that they will not”, Sherlock said. “However, as there are no night services from the halt and I do not wish to endure a dangerous journey to Oakham in the dark, we will depart first thing tomorrow morning.” 

He turned to the school secretary, a grizzled elderly lady by the name of Miss Floriston.

“I would like copies of the files you have on all four boys, please”, he said. “Not now, but for when I return. Will that be possible?”

I did not believe it. She had iron-grey hair, and she still simpered at him!

“Of course, Mr. Holmes”, she said sweetly. “I will set to work right away.”

I coughed pointedly. He looked at me, clearly unabashed. Honestly, I could not take him anywhere!

+~+~+

Sherlock and I had been placed in one of the dormitories, the boys there having been forced to move out for the night. I was hoping for a good night's sleep, but just as I was about to suggest that we turn in, there came a knock at the door.

“Enter!” Sherlock called.

To my surprise, Mark Barrington-Brooks poked his head around the door. 

“He took them”, he said. 

“Thank you”, Sherlock said, standing up. “The doctor and I are going out. Lock the door behind us and do not allow anyone in but us. We will knock four times, pause, then once, when we return. Do you understand?”

The boy swallowed.

“Yes”, he said in a small voice.

“Chin up!” Sherlock said. “You are helping us to catch a murderer!”

+~+~+

I hurried after him, but Sherlock was apparently too busy to answer my obvious questions. Somehow he navigated the labyrinth of corridors easily, though I had no clue as to where we were heading. Eventually he stopped outside a small door and entered what appeared to be an unused bedroom.

“Where are we?” I whispered. 

“The teachers' quarters”, he whispered back. He gestured to a door in the side-wall. “Through there is Mr. Barnstone's room.”

“Then we must be quiet”, I said, “or he will hear us.”

Sherlock chuckled.

“He may normally”, he said. “Tonight someone has drugged his evening milk drink and is expecting him to be asleep, but he is feigning as advised.”

“Why?” I asked.

“We shall see when he receives the visitor that I am expecting”, Sherlock said. “Probably not for a few hours yet, though. We had best make ourselves comfortable.”

+~+~+

He was proven right. It was a little after two o'clock in the morning before I heard the sound of quiet footsteps in the corridor outside. I took out my notebook.

'What are we going to do?' I wrote, and showed it to him.

He took it and wrote a single word, 'wait'. 

Nothing happened for what seemed like an age, until I saw the handle of the connecting side-door slowly turning. The door opened silently – someone must have surely greased the hinges – and a figure stepped into our room, smiling broadly. Then he saw Sherlock and I standing there, and the smile vanished as if it never had been. 

It was Master Æthelred Langar.

+~+~+

Sherlock moved swiftly, and the boy was handcuffed before he could even resist, though he seemed too stunned at being caught. 

“Stay with him”, Sherlock said in his normal voice, before hurrying through the still open door. I could now smell what was indisputably smoke coming through, and I feared momentarily for my friend before I heard the sound of windows and doors being opened, followed quickly by Sherlock helping a yawning Mr. Barnstone through the door. 

“John”, he said, “I need you to go and fetch Father Adam and inform him of what has happened here.”

“What has happened?” I asked, still confused. Sherlock gestured to the stunned Master Langar.

“This boy just tried to commit patricide.”

+~+~+

“How did you know?” Father Adam demanded. 

It was the following day. Fortunately the murderous schoolboy had relied on smoke rather than fire to dispose of the father whose cocoa he had drugged, so the damage to the room was minimal. The mental damage to a man whose son had killed twice and then attempted patricide was another matter entirely.

“It struck me on hearing of this crime that there was, fittingly, a certain schoolboy element about it”, Sherlock said. “Curses are all very well, but local constabularies tend to look for facts. Thus I was looking for someone with possibly an immature outlook on life. Though it has to be said, that includes many adults!”

I smiled.

“I was also fortunate in that I had a small case for the Duke of Rutland some years back”, Sherlock said, “and had a chance to see the fine portraits in his London home. The moment I saw Mr. Barnstone, I suspected a link, and of course that led me to the idea that Master Langar might be his son.”

“Of course!” I said. “Mark Barrington-Brooks overheard Master Langar calling someone 'Father'. He was not speaking to Father Adam at all!”

Sherlock nodded.

“Had he been addressing Father Adam here, he would have more likely said 'Father Adam' than just 'Father'”, he said. “That, plus the fact that the villages of Langar and Barnstone are both close to Belvoir Castle. As also is Harby, where Mr. Barnstone hails from; I expect the school he taught at was also attended by his son, as the Leicestershire border is barely a mile from there. And Mr. Barnstone mentioned that the boy 'had always been like that', yet apparently he had known him for only a term here.”

“The chocolate bars?” Father Adam asked.

“Master Langar knew that they would dispose of two of the boys at the ritual”, Sherlock said. “He knew that Barrington-Brooks was allergic, so he would not eat any, and since they shared a room, it was easy to infer that his room-mate had stolen the uneaten chocolate bars to hide the evidence. It is, I am afraid, the old trick of hiding a leaf in a forest, or in this case, a murder in a set of murders.”

“But how did you know that he would try to kill his father tonight?” Father Adam asked.

“Remember that I told your secretary about my plans to take Mr. Barnstone to London the next day”, Sherlock smiled. “Contrary to the original meaning of their name, secretaries are often terrible at keeping secrets. I also had Barrington-Brooks standing by as a back-up; he was going to mention it if the news had not reached Master Langar by nightfall, but it had.”

“His own father”, Father Adam shuddered. “Why?”

“Money”, Sherlock said flatly. “A great deal of it. Mr. Barnstone – or Mr. Manners, as I should call him – is quite wealthy, and Master Æthelred is his first-born son. The boy decided that he was not prepared to wait for his father to die, but wanted that money now. As I expected, I found an alleged suicide note 'from' Mr. Barnstone, confessing to the murder of the two boys 'because the devil made him do it'. As the Bible says, the love of money is the root of all evil. Which brings me to my fee.”

“Oh”, Father Adam said. “Yes. Indeed. We are not....”

“My fee”, Sherlock said, “is that you allow Mr. Barnstone to continue here if he so wishes. He may not, after the ordeal that the poor fellow has undergone, but no man should be subjected to both that and losing his job for a relatively small untruth. I am convinced that he could not have known as to the horror he was unleashing here.”

“Of course”, Father Adam smiled. “We would be glad to keep him on.”

+~+~+

As things turned out, Mr. Barnstone/Mr. Manners did stay on at the school, and eventually rose to become deputy headmaster. His son, being too young to face the death penalty, spent the rest of his life behind bars, which for the wilful murder of two young boys and attempted patricide was the very least that he deserved.

+~+~+

In our next adventure, the lady vanishes – except all is not what it seems (when is it ever?).

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: Lost villages like Martinsthorpe (a real place) are very common across England. Around the start of the sixteenth century, the rising price of wool coupled with the ongoing Black Death pushing up the wages of peasants made replacing local villages with a shepherd's hut and some sheep very profitable. Rutlandshire (about twice the size of the District of Columbia but with 6% of the population) has in addition lost Alstoe, Hardwick, Horn, Ingthorpe and Pickworth.


End file.
